Rain Dances
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: What a feeling it is, to dance in the rain. Oneshot.


**Hey, look, I'm not dead! Yeah, it's been a crummy moth writing-wise. No inspiration and failed oneshot attempts have encircled me all September. Right now I'm writing more oneshots and I hope I can get them finished and up here, along with updates for my stories. But I like to do as I want to, so story updates may not come as fast as whimsical oneshots. So, anyway, enjoy this fluff after a long absence from me.**

It's not hard for her to fall in love again and again. She hates his dorky behavior but then she loves it so much she feels like she's thirteen again, a free spirit whose only destiny is to frolic in the flowers like a cliché Disney movie. He brings out that sensation of bliss within her that wraps itself around her in a hug, forcing her to be cheery even when she's so mad all she wants to do is punch him in the face—which she does, but with teasing love.

Under the Seattle sky they lay, fresh after a picnic made up of her favorite foods (spare no expense is his motto when it comes to making her happy), their hands intertwined. His palm is rough against hers; his skin is calloused but soft in his own way. Their bodies lie next to each other, electricity coursing through them as their sides touch. His vanilla-scented shampoo wafts up her nostrils, driving her wild inside, even though it disgusts her when she reads books where the girl obsesses over how a guy smells, and vice versa. She kind of gets it now.

He turns his head to her, a goofy half-smile playing on his lips that makes her unsure whether she wants to wipe it off with a kiss or a fist. She just smiles somewhat back, her grip around his hand tightening. He whispers something she doesn't catch, but she chuckles anyway because he could speak gibberish and sound romantic. Slowly he kisses her cheek, like a butterfly grazing her skin rather than lips. In Spanish he says something, and it makes her tingle to hear how his voice attains an accent of such a quixotic country.

"Your hair sparkles in moonlight, did you know that?" he says. It seems doubtful, but he could say her parents were aliens from Jupiter and she'd go along with every word. It's so uncharacteristic of her to give so much of herself to someone else, but love is not something she experiences all the time.

"Thank you." she says, and he kisses her cheek again, making the blood in her veins pump faster with her heartbeat.

Suddenly, a raindrop splatters against her face. Then another, and another. They begin to hit his face too and it's like a canvas with the paint running; oh, heaven forbid this painting get ruined. He takes her under his arms, sheltering her porcelain face from the water, and runs them both to the old car on the side of the road. He gets her in first, taking no notice of how soaked his shirt is getting. _She_ notices, and the vision of his shirt clinging to his body sends chills up her spine (_is it hot in this car or what?_). When he enters, he's wet; droplets running down from his nose and eyelashes. But it just makes the runny portrait more beautiful in the imperfectness of it all. If she cared about perfect, she wouldn't be with him.

The rain progresses from light drizzle to a barrage of droplets, attacking the fortress that is his beat-up, barf-colored car. She's almost surprised the windshield doesn't shatter from the force of the assault. Right now she ignores the rain, and turns to him as he looks like he got caught in a fight. Oh geez, he looks too good to be true in that skin-tight button-down that clings to him desperately.

She leans in, smelling his hair, arm wrapping round his, when he just lets a curse word fly. She's shocked (he's too much of a goody-goody gentleman to cuss) so much that she can only stare, bewildered, with icy-blue eyes. "What?" she inquires, more testily than comfortingly. He peers at her, anger clouding his features; but not directed at her, she tells herself.

"We left the basket and blanket out in the rain," he mumbles, resting his head on the steering wheel, "_God_! I'm an idiot."

"Shut up, it coulda happened to anybody." she consoles, as best as she can, her hand rubbing his back. He's too upset to realize this, and instead keeps beating his forehead against the bumpy steering wheel. She's much more daring than him; ready to get down-and-dirty when worst comes to worst, so he's merely mildly shocked when she flings the car door open and trudges through the muck and rainwater. Aghast, he knows what he must do but yet he sits idly by. The rain attacks her head like bullets, more powerful with every punishable splat. She goes on, searching for the plaid square in the middle of a drenched black field. At last—huzzah!—it is found, their treasure, but it's soggy and difficult to carry back. Don't think she doesn't try; but failing is an inevitable.

At last he decides it's no use to wait; he too leaves his sanctum of aridity and jumps into the line of fire. Running, he gets over to her, reliving the sogginess of his shirt. He manages to get by her side, but the sudden stop ends up with his legs flailing in the air and him landing on his rump. Mud rains down on him like the water, and he knows his mother will have a hissy fit when he brings home grimy, squelchy clothes.

"Help me, loser!" she says, but her malice is interrupted by fits of giggles taking over her body at the expense of his dignity. He lets her laugh (so often does he, he sometimes forgets it's directed at him), but not without a command of assistance, which she gives in the most unhelpful way possible. His arm stays sore from where she's yanked it.

The scene of them both sopping wet in a rainstorm upstarts her imagination. So many times has she envisioned dancing in the rain romantically, wrapped by the strong, loving embrace of a boy perhaps like him. She acts on her instinct, disregarding its ridiculousness, and kisses him fully before pulling him into a dance. He's confused, but obliges, gleefully spinning her round until he's laughing and smiling, and they both ignore the car honks and water splatters and yells of tenants in nearby apartments. It is them only—it is their city, their moment.

"I hate you." he says, for making him come out here to drown in the freezing cold just to dance. But she can read the words behind his evil-sounding ones, and rests her cheek against his, whispering softly:

"And don't ever stop."


End file.
